


What was stolen from us

by CrazyCatsLady



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Consensual Underage Sex, F/M, Gay Sex, M/M, Memory Alteration, Mpreg, Recovered Memories, Repressed Memories, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:54:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 16,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23246590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrazyCatsLady/pseuds/CrazyCatsLady
Summary: Fingolfin has been reincarnated, his body rebuilt ... but not in the way he knew it. He has something new inside, something they say he always had, something that could have changed everything in the past.There are secrets in Fingolfin's past, secrets that affect others, secrets that were the triggers for all the evil that happened to the Noldor.
Relationships: Anairë/Fingolfin | Ñolofinwë, Finwë/Indis (Tolkien), Fëanor | Curufinwë/Fingolfin | Ñolofinwë, Fëanor | Curufinwë/Nerdanel
Comments: 46
Kudos: 133





	1. Something you should have not

The rebirth had been easier than he expected. Despite his body's habit of not obeying him at the least indicated - and most embarrassing – moments, of adapting once again to the weight of his limbs and the impossibility of crossing walls, it had not gone so badly.

Having been one of the instigators of the Noldor rebellion, Fingolfin had enjoyed Mandos's hospitality a little more than the rest of the Exiles who perished in Middle-earth. Scarcely surpassed by the other culprit, Fëanor.

Fingolfin hated the way his half-brother's Sindarin name blunted his tongue, as if that word didn't really exist. However, in the millennia when he was dead, Valinor had changed enough for Sindarin to be the official language of all peoples. He had to adapt to survive.

Since his rebirth, Fingolfin had resumed relations with his brother, politely rejecting Finarfin's attempts to accept a seat on the Council. He had also made several courtesy visits to Anairë, and although neither of them seemed eager to rush into the step, it was evident that she was counting on them to resume their marriage at some point. Excluding the two times a week he dined at one of his children's houses, Fingolfin spent most of the time in the quiet of the small house he acquired on the outskirts of town. Sometimes, after having worked in the garden and with a book on his lap, the former king of the Noldor wondered why the Valar had decided to free them before Arda was remade, as Mandos' initial words claimed. On even rarer occasions, Fingolfin plunged into reveries, evoking the years of innocence of his childhood, long before he was able to understand what 'death', 'betrayal' ... 'hate' really meant.

Thus, the life of the most powerful of the elven warriors passed in calm and anonymity.

Until that day.

The fifth year of his rebirth had passed when Fingolfin experienced the first symptoms. Initially, he paid no attention to the heat: like almost all those who survived the Helcaraxë, Fingolfin had retained very little tolerance for warm temperatures. However, as the days passed, the heat only increased, forcing him to stay home to avoid the sun or taking long baths that failed to appease his blood. The situation reached the point where the lightest cloth garment damaged his hypersensitive skin and he began to seriously consider having contracted some disease. Just in case, he excused himself with Fingon from the planned dinner and remained hidden from everyone, waiting to be able to bear the clothes so he could go to a healer.

When he woke up totally disoriented and naked in his bed, not knowing what day or time it was, Fingolfin realized that something was very wrong with him. Around him, the sheets were drenched in sweat and ripped. Some stains of blood speckled the linen under him and other stains were of… semen?

Fingolfin blinked in a daze as he watched the evidence that at some point he had lost control of his mind and body to the point of scratching and… jerking off?

If anything good had happened, it was that the excruciating heat was over. Although he felt exhausted and sleepy, his body was back to normal. But he had to find a solution, an explanation for what happened.

After taking a bath and wearing decent clothes for the first time in weeks, Fingolfin made his way to the Lorien Gardens, hoping to consult Estë.

The Valië received him in a gazebo made up of trees intertwining their tops. In the healers' gray and blue gown, the Dreammaster's wife almost looked like just another elf, too petite to match her siblings.

"Welcome, Fingolfin son of Finwë," she greeted him. “How can we help you in the Gardens of Rest?”

"I think ... I think something is wrong with my new _hroa_ , my lady," Fingolfin frowned, preferring to get to the point.

“How is that, son of Finwë?” raised her silver brows the Valië.

The noldo bit his lower lip and began to explain what happened to him, without overlooking his awakening that morning. When he finished, he was silent, waiting for the verdict of the goddess.

"I don't think you're sick, Fingolfin son of Indis," Estë smiled and the elf frowned at the change of epithet.

“Ma’am…”

“ You've only been through your heat period. The first after your rebirth.”

Maybe she could have told him what the symptoms were before his wings grew. Fingolfin listened stunned, wondering if he had misheard.

“Madam, forgive my ignorance”, he finally said, with effort; “I was never an applied student ... but I am almost certain that the rut period is when ... the females of some animals are ...”

“I would say that you did pay attention to in class,” Estë declared mockingly.

“So, I don't understand how ...”

“Not only the females of certain animals go through their heat; Ductiles also go through heat, although the frequency varies in each of them. When was the last time you had your heat? Before your death, I mean.”

"Never," Fingolfin replied dryly.

His answer confused Estë more than anything he could have said. Frowning, the goddess studied the man in front of her. A flash of purple lit her normally green eyes as she scanned him from a distance: Fingolfin was certain she was seeing through him.

"Well," Estë murmured, in an abstracted tone, "you are obviously a Ductile. There is the matrix and ...”

“What?!” Fingolfin roared, leaping to his feet. “I have no matrix! I am not a female!”

“Of course you are not a female. But you do have a matrix. Maybe you should consult the Souls’ Keeper: if it's true that you never had your rut before your death, maybe it's because you weren't a Ductile back then. Only the Guardian of Souls can answer why he decided to rebuild you in this way.”

Fingolfin pressed his lips together in a fine line. Rising to his feet, he bowed to Irmo's wife and hastened to leave the gardens of repose.

While riding towards the Mansions of Mandos, Fingolfin evoked another ride thousands of years ago, also to face a god. The anger that consumed him today was barely different in intensity from the one that brought him to the gates of Angband that time.

With a leap he left the steed, which - as if sensing his state of mind - trotted away, and grabbing a stone, he repeatedly struck the petrified wood blades.

Breathing heavily, Fingolfin listened as the echo of the blows faded into the vaulted distance. He raised his hand again...

“One call is more than enough, Arakáno Indisirion.”

Fingolfin turned on the spot to face the vala. Námo did not move, covered by the black cloak whose bottoms were blurred in wisps of shadow.

"You are here to recover what you have lost, son of Indis," declared the Guardian of Souls. “But that, I'm not the one who can give it to you.”

“Bullshit. I'm here for you to tell me why you played with my body.”

Námo raised his dark eyebrows and his mouth curled in amazement.

“Play with your body? Are you accusing me of being negligent in my work, Nolofinwë Arakáno?”

"I accuse you ..." Fingolfin bit his lower lip, reminding himself that he was not at war with this vala. For the moment. “I do not accuse anything or anyone, Guardian of Souls; but I want to understand why you changed my body. Estë has said that I have ...”

Námo leaned toward him slightly, as if trying to hear the murmur that was his final words.

“You have… what, Indisirion?”

“A womb, damn it! Like a female! She said I'm a ... a ...!”

“Ductile. They were highly valued among your people before they came to Valinor: very special beings, in whose hroa the miracle of conception and the impetus of the man were combined. The only ones among the Eruhíni who served both principles: life and death. They disappeared into the beatitude of the Blessed Kingdom.”

“You mean there is more?”

“Right now? Not many, actually. You are the only one I have restored.”

“But ... but I was not born this way. You made me.”

"Don't be ridiculous, son of Indis," the Vala huffed. “I just redo your hroa from its original state, as designed by the All’s Father at the beginning of your existence.”

Fingolfin blinked, stunned.

“If ... if I was originally a ... a Ductile ... why didn't I have my heat earlier?”

“Of course you did. As soon as you reached the age of conceiving.”

“I think I would remember something like that.”

“And I think you would not remember if ... **someone** had manipulated your memories, son of Indis.”

“My memories?”

“I can't return your memories, Nolofinwë. Right now, they lie within you as they have remained for these thousands of years. I can only show you the way to reach them. It is your decision whether or not you will.”

_His decision._

A week after his interview with the Guardian of Souls, Fingolfin was still wondering if he wanted to know, if it would be worth delving into a past that he had not lacked until now. However, the fact that his body had been restored to its original form meant a change in his perception of the world.

He couldn't help wondering how different his life would have been. Instead of fathering his children in Anairë's womb, he might have carried them himself. He wondered how different Fingon, Turgon, Aredhel… would have been if they had grown in his womb, fed by the seed of another male. Every time those thoughts invaded him, a warm purr activated in his chest, giving away a part of himself that he ignored.

A part of him wanted to run to Indis and demand an explanation; but another part was afraid to hear the motives that took his parents to strip him of his nature, he was afraid to discover that his own mother had...

In the end, he decided to take Námo's advice. Locked in his bedroom, Fingolfin lay face up on the bed and withdrew into himself, searching deep within himself.


	2. The call

**Year 1415 of the Trees; Tirion-upon-Túna.**

Fëanáro made his way to his father's study, ignoring the servants who bowed in his wake or the screeches from the children's wing, betraying that Indis's second son was awake.

He entered the office without knocking. The king looked up from the documents he was reviewing and when he saw who was interrupting him, he smiled sweetly.

"My son," he said as he stood up with open arms.

The craftsman went to him and hugged him firmly, causing the King of the Noldor to complain with laughter, worried about his ribs.

“Did you just come?” he asked when they only moved the distance of their arms.

“Right now. I haven't even got home yet.”

“It was a good trip?”

“Productive. I found two copper veins and a black jade deposit. In two days I will return with the workers to start the excavations.”

“Two days?” The king's eyebrows touched the gold ribbon that adorned his forehead. “Nerdanel will not be satisfied with that.”

"She will be when she can use jade on her sculptures," Fëanáro shrugged. “I have left the location marked; but I am interested that no one gets ahead of me in the exploitation of the deposit: the variety of black jade is not abundant. Especially this one”, he concluded with a mischievous smile as he extracted a black oval stone from his pocket.

Despite not being polished, in the stone it was possible to see silver and gold flashes that fed the interior. Finwë reached out to seize the fragment and study it against the light.

"Incredible," he mused. “I thought there was no 'stellar gold' in Valinor.”

“I thought that too; but we were both wrong, father.”

"I suppose you will keep it as part of your collection," replied the king, returning the stone, reluctantly.

“Actually, it's a gift.”

“Ah. Speaking of gifts, you missed your brother's anniversary.”

"I know," sighed the prince. “It's for him. He will prefer this to a new jewelry set - you already saw what he did with the last set of bracelets I gave him.”

“You are unfair, Curufinwë. Ingwion kept crying because he wanted an equal pair.”

“And that's why Nolvo had to give them to him? I spent days making those bracers for him. Specifically for him, father.”

"Be patient with your brother: he is still a child and ..." Finwë broke off, frowning. “But you're right: he will really like you to remember him.”

"I'll go see him right now, before I go home," Fëanáro explained, heading for the door.

“Wait, Curufinwë!” His father stopped him. “Nolofinwë doesn’t -he is not in the palace.”

“He went out early to ride, huh?” Fëanáro smiled. “I'll wait for him. It should not take ...”

“He's not in the city.”

“Oh. But when…?”

“In a few days he will be back. I will send you a message when he can receive you.”

Fëanáro raised his arched eyebrows, puzzled. _When he could receive him_? Should he now ask for an audience to see his younger brother? That could only be Indis's idea, disgusted by the closeness between them.

"Fine," he nodded curtly. “Then I will go to my house and hope to see Nolofinwë on my return. I don't know how long it will take this time so… maybe I will deliver his gift a little late.”

“You can leave it to me. I will give it to him when ...”

“No thanks. I'll give it to him when possible. Good morning, father.”

The craftsman left the office with clenched teeth of rage. He must have guessed that this would happen sooner or later; but he never expected that his father would so easily bow to the will of his new wife. Well, worse for Nolofinwë: it would be the boy who would lose because he could not count on his guide in the studies and ...

He stopped dead, stunned. The scent flooded his lungs to supply all the oxygen. Not realizing what he was doing, he left the path to the stables to enter the corridor to his left. As he advanced, the perfume became more intense and Fëanáro found himself slowing down until he was running through the gallery.

He stopped in front of the closed door and rested a hand on the wood, bending down to stick his nose to the crack between the sheet and the jamb. He breathed in the apple scent, gently covered in the sweetest essence of vanilla. He wondered how it was possible that he recognized these aromas so easily when cooking was never among his hobbies. A hot roar developed in his chest, too similar to hunger.

Fëanor opened the door and entered the room. It took him a few seconds to adjust to the half-light that greeted him.

Inside the chamber, the aroma was more intense and the air was heavy with sweat and other body odors. Fëanáro hesitated as his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting and he managed to make out a bed in which someone stirred, making low pitiful sounds.

He rushed to the other person's side with a feeling squeezing his chest.

A curse welled up from his pale lips as he realized that it was his half-brother who lay on the bed.

Barely dressed in a linen shirt, Nolofinwë writhed on the bed and Fëanáro cursed again when he discovered that his wrists were tied by a silk cord at the head of the bed. The lower part of his body was covered by a sheet and the prince saw one of the feet escape from it, showing another rope around the reddened ankle. It was evident that the boy had struggled to free himself.

“Nolvo?” The elder called, leaning over him and it was at that moment that he realized that the perfume came from Nolofinwë.

As if pushed by an outside force, Fëanáro sat on the edge of the mattress and reached out to brush the sweat-soaked hair from his brother's flushed face. On contact with his skin, he growled: Nolofinwë was burning with fever!

“Nolvo!” he called out louder. “Who did this to you, little one?”

The young elf's blue eyes shot up to him, unfocused, and the blacksmith cursed obscenely as he reached for a handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his brother's temples and neck. As soon as he touched him, Nolofinwë arched back, offering his bare throat, whimpering desperately.

“Nolvo, darling”, Fëanáro was frightened, “tell me who did this to you. Tell me…”

“It hurts!” The boy complained, narrowing his eyes and twisting his arms. “It burns! It hurts a lot, please! Please make it go ... make ...”

“Yes, little one; I'm going to take care of you”, Fëanáro promised, obfuscated and quickly released the knots to free his half-brother’s wrists.

Immediately, he launched himself towards the foot of the bed and also released his ankles, running his fingers over the cardinals, furious.

“I'm going to take you to the infirmary ...” he started to say; but when he faced Nolofinwë, he lunged at him and put his arms around his neck as he buried his face in his chest.

"It hurts," he insisted lower. “Calm me down, please. Help me, Curvo.”

"I'm trying to, darling," Fëanáro felt his breath catch as the scent of vanilla rose to his head. “I'll take you to a healer and ...”

“Do not! I don't want a healer, ” Nolofinwë violently denied and tightened his arms around his neck. “I love you, Curufinwë. Relieve me, please.”

“Nolvo, I ...”

“Here.”

Taking one of Fëanáro’s hands with one of his, Nolofinwë led it to his belly. Fëanáro looked down to see how his fingers were guided through the taut abdomen, over the wet fabric, to the crotch ... The prince's silver eyes rested at last on what until then he did not want to see.

Nolofinwë's cock stood up covered by the almost transparent linen. Fëanáro had seen his brother naked thousands of times, had appreciated the changes in the infant body until he became a slim and attractive teenager, they had awakened together in the same bed, showing without shame the morning erection ... but now it was different. So different that the blood rushed to Fëanáro's temples, throbbing almost painfully.

Nolofinwë did not force him to touch his sex: softly, he placed the blacksmith's hand on his groin, next to the base of the shaft and waited, breathing hard.

It was Fëanáro who moved his hand to slide a finger along the length of his rigid phallus. Slowly, he tugged at the fabric to expose the hot meat, and his breath caught in his throat as he discovered a liquid pearl forming at the blushing tip.

“It hurts?” He asked in an inevitably hoarse voice.

"Mhn," the boy agreed, biting his lower lip.

“Since when are you like this?”

“Days ... I don't know ... are you going to ...? Are you going to help me, Curvo?”

"I'm going to make you feel good, little one," Fëanáro assured him and gently pushed him to lie down on the sweat-damp sheets.

The crown prince only took a second to remove his boots, and then he lay down next to his half-brother. He leaned over him cautiously. Despite that, Nolofinwë winced when the tip of Fëanáro's nose sniffed under his ear and shuddered violently at the feel of his tongue running down the curve of his jaw before descending down the side of his neck.

A stifled gasp left the teen's lips as his hand hardened by the use of tools brushed against his overly sensitive sex. Very slowly, Fëanáro slid his palm up and down, without surrounding the turgid flesh: meanwhile, he continued to kiss and lick his bare neck and shoulder, down to the dimple where his collarbones were joined. He nibbled along the outlined bones under the wet skin and when the breath left the boy's lungs with a deep exhalation, he clenched his fist around the swollen horn.

Nolofinwë propelled his hips into the grip on his sex, meowing pitifully.

Fëanáro imposed a slow, controlled rhythm, ignoring the way his own cock throbbed in the restraint of the leggings to focus on relieving his little brother. It didn't take long for the pre-seminal fluid to slip between his fingers, oiling the hot length. Nolofinwë arched back, holding onto his heels and clutching at the pillow with his fingers like hooks.

Fëanáro licked his lips, watching as the whitish jets fell to the teenager's belly and thighs. He kept stroking, allowing his fingers to soak in the milky fluid -the vanilla scent to mix with the smell of sex flooding his senses.

Nolofinwë relaxed with a sigh, closing his eyes. The older elf stared at him, fascinated, wondering how he had overlooked the attraction his half-brother had for him, for each of his senses.

“Thank you.”

Nolofinwë's voice was raspy and weak, as if he had spent many hours moaning and begging for compassion.

"Okay," Fëanáro agreed, wanting to downplay the fact that his crotch was burning and aching with desire.

The son of Indis’s blue eyes ran apprehensively before the boy reached out a hand.

Fëanáro hissed through his teeth as Nolofinwë's fingers brushed his erection through the cloth.

"Nolvo ..." he murmured.

“You want…?” He ran his tongue over his lips and continued, with effort: “Do you want to fuck me?”

“How do you say?” The elder was puzzled.

“Eh ... mother said that sooner or later I would have to find someone who ...”

"You are too young to think of a wife, Nolofinwë," he interrupted, furious.

“She was not referring to a wife; but ... she said it would be much easier if ... if a male calmed my ... needs. Mother explained that I am… special. I have needs for men and ... for women.”

“When did she tell you that?”

“When the heat started.”

“Was she the one who brought you here?”

Nolofinwë shook his head.

“Father. He said it would be safer for me, that if someone saw me in this situation they could ... take advantage, hurt me ... but you won't hurt me, right? You will take care of me, Curvo.”

Fëanáro held his breath. With an effort, he swallowed hard and nodded.

“I will take care of you, Nolvo, my little one”, he assured in a hoarse voice.


	3. Heat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter is pure smuth. It's not necessary for the plot, so if you are not prepared or don't want to read it, you can skip it and wait for the next one to be published. 
> 
> I was just pampering myself with my OTP XP

After relief, Fëanáro helped his half-brother take a bath and made him sleep like when he was an elfling. Then he stripped off his travel clothes and checked that the door was closed.

The bedroom in which Nolofinwë was confined communicated with a cabinet that in turn connected to a larger room. The craftsman supposed that through these rooms they brought food and water to his brother. A growl of rage erupted from his throat: after Nolofinwë rested, he would go to hold his father accountable. How could he have done such a thing to his son? Fëanáro had read enough about the Dark Lands not to know what a Ductile was and although he was surprised by the fact that precisely his brother was one of them, it did not seem far-fetched to him. Nolofinwë had always had a special beauty, causing men and women to turn to look at him. Looking at him sleeping, Fëanáro could not help imagining him with a bulging belly, carrying a baby - _his baby_.

With an effort, he pulled himself out of the reveries. Even if he had now agreed to help Nolvo get through his first heat, a relationship between two men - much less with a blood bond - would not be accepted by anyone in Valinor, let alone having a child! Also, he was married to Nerdanel and they already had four children: how could he think of having another one? With his own little brother?

Shaking his head, he lay down next to his brother to keep him company.

He didn't know how long they had slept; but Fëanáro woke up feeling the burning body against his. Sweat covered Nolofinwë's trembling limbs, and quiet meows escaped his lips.

Fëanáro had taken the precaution of lying down dressed to avoid accidents. He had made up his mind to ease the boy without penetrating, keeping some decency between them. He wasn't sure if he had his little brother he could let him go later.

Arousal had gripped Nolofinwë again, and his cock was fluttering between his thighs, heavy with desire, oozing tiny pearls of precum. Fëanáro buried in the back of his mind the desire aroused by the image and with determination, he dedicated himself to slowly masturbating him, speeding up the pace as the boy's moans increased in intensity.

Nolofinwë came copiously; but the erection persisted, stubbornly. Gasping breath lifted his chest as his eyes remained fixed on the ceiling.

Fëanáro sensed that the vanilla aroma was diluting, replaced by an odor that made his nose tickle unpleasantly and he realized that the boy was uncomfortable. Apparently, this second time, it would not be enough to masturbate him. Without hesitation, the crown prince shifted to position himself between the minor's open legs and descending, he took the dick with one hand to lick it from the wet tip to the base.

A violent shudder shook the boy, who bit his lower lip to silence a moan. Squinting, he clung to the sheets, ripping them apart as Fëanáro took the tip of his phallus between his lips and sucked delicately.

For a second Fëanáro simply circled the tip of his tongue under the frenulum, savoring the almost transparent drops that spilled out. Finally, he took the shaft in his mouth and advanced slowly, until the hot head touched his throat. From that moment, he began to rise and fall as he wrapped his tongue and brushed the sensitive flesh with his teeth. He slid a hand up to caress Nolofinwé’s hard testicles and while fucking him with his mouth, he moved his fingers to caress his perineum and carefully explore between the round buttocks.

Moisture greeted him at the teen's entrance, drawing a guttural moan that made the cock in his mouth vibrate. He dipped a finger into the narrow hole - so narrow that Fëanáro felt his own cock pulsing hungrily inside his pants - and Nolofinwë rose on his heels, rocking his hips to seek more depth in the wet cavity around him.

The fingers of the son of Indis tangled in the dark hair of his half-brother and forgetting the shyness, he gave himself up to the need to fuck his mouth desperately.

Fëanáro felt the shudders of sex against his tongue and moved to take it up to his throat, waiting. The semen slid warmly down his throat, generously; but he did not let anything escape, swallowing and licking slowly when Nolofinwë's cock stopped stirring in his mouth.

The craftsman sat up, sitting on his heels to gaze at his brother's flushed face of pleasure.

“Did you like it?” He claimed, in a hoarse voice.

“Gods, yes!” Laughed the boy, panting. He opened his eyes and looked at the older elf. “You want…? Why don't you get naked too?”

“Needless.”

Nolofinwë sat up slowly and reached out to cover the obvious lump between his brother's thighs. Fëanáro protested under his breath, shuddering. Without waiting for another reaction, Nolofinwë opened the fly and released the painfully hard cock. A flash flashed in his light eyes as he noted the thickness and length of the limb.

"Shit," he muttered breathlessly. “This is going to hurt.”

A hand from Fëanáro closed around his wrist, stopping him.

"I'm not going to fuck you," he declared with effort.

“But you want to fuck me. _I want you to fuck me_. I want to feel you inside of me.” With determination, he twisted his imprisoned forearm between Fëanáro's fingers and released his hand to caress the swollen flesh again. “I want to feel how your cock advances inside me, tensing, stretching ... I want to know how it is ... to know the pain that comes before pleasure ... I want you to fill me until I can't bear it ... I want you to fuck me so hard that I can't sit down for one week…”

“Shut up!” Fëanáro ordered, rising to catch him by the hair at the base of the neck and throwing his head back, kissed him wildly.

Nolofinwë responded anxiously, still touching him, clinging to his body, wrapping his legs around his hips to sit on top of him and rub his erection.

After a few minutes when they kissed fiercely, Nolofinwë threw his head back and still rocking on top of his erection, he commented:

“Undress ... or your clothes will be a disaster.”

"You asked for it," Fëanáro barked and lifting him up, tossed him onto the mattress.

It took him very little to undress, ripping when the clothes resisted. His body was as covered in perspiration as his partner's, and his cock hungrily contracted between his muscular thighs.

Nolofinwë stared at him, breathing hard and with an agile movement, he turned, putting himself on four.

Fëanáro knelt behind him and covering his buttocks with his wide open hands, squeezed them before separating them to expose the wet and throbbing entrance.

The young elf gave a small cry of surprise and delight as he felt the touch of his tongue in his tight hole. He forced himself to remain still while Fëanáro licked and sucked around his entrance. Finally, the tip of his tongue thrust into the hole and Nolofinwë gasped loudly, drawing his knees further apart as he propelled himself against the invasion.

Fëanáro fucked the throbbing hole with his tongue, unleashing a more powerful heat wave than the previous ones in the teenager.

“Fuck!” Nolofinwë yelled, arching his back. “Yes! More! More, please!”

Míriel's son moved a hand between the young man's thighs, grasping the hardened cock to caress it in the same cadence that his tongue entered and left. Very soon, the semen spilled between Fëanáro's fingers, who interrupted his attentions to let the boy collapse, still agitated by the ecstatic shudders.

Without waiting for Nolofinwë to recover, the craftsman stood behind him and, passing a forearm under one thigh, made him raise his leg against his belly to open more access to his body.

Nolofinwë tensed at the pressure in his intimate entrance. Holding his breath, he concentrated on allowing the thick object to advance.

Fëanáro would have wanted to advise him, assure him that everything was fine, that he would take care that he felt comfortable; but as soon as the tip of his cock passed the ring of muscles, common sense vanished like mist at dawn and without making more than hoarse gasps, he could only push ... push until there was no space between them, until the firm butt of Nolofinwë pressed into his pelvis.

For a few eternal seconds, neither of them moved, adjusting to the impossible tension that connected them. After all, Fëanáro withdrew just a little to charge once until he sank completely into his lover. Almost immediately, Nolofinwë pushed back, finding the thrusts halfway, following the rhythm set by his brother. The movements of both soon led to a frantic dance, which filled the room with the sound of moans and the clash of flesh against flesh.


	4. Promises

Fëanáro moved carefully, making sure not to leave the inside of his brother while he took him by the chin so that he turned his face and could kiss him languidly.

He had lost count of how many times he had managed to make Nolofinwë to cum, how many times his seed had filled his half-brother’s narrow channel. It was as if Nolofinwë's condition had made him enter in heat as well.

When they pulled away, gasping, Nolofinwë twisted a little more to sink his nose between his older brother's neck and shoulder as he purred like a satisfied cat. Instinctively, Fëanáro waved his hips, delighting in the way his still firm flesh slid against the young man's satiny guts.

"Mhn," the boy murmured, and Fëanáro felt the curve of his smile on his neck. “Do you want more?”

-“You're too exhausted. You better sleep.”

"You can continue to use me while I sleep," Nolofinwë suggested, and raising his face, traced the curve of the elder's jaw with his tongue. “I would love to wake up with your cock all the way in my ass, your hips ramming me wildly ... you telling me that I have the most delicious ass in the world, that you prefer me to all the pussies that exist in Valinor ...”

“You have a very dirty mouth, little one.”

“It will be because it is full of your semen and mine.”

Fëanáro growled before kissing him roughly.

"A dirty little mouth," he repeated later. “And a delicious little mouth. Maybe I should give you something to shut up at once.”

“Promises, promises… “ the minor scoffed, humming. “Give me something to scream and let everyone know how you turn me on.”

Fëanáro dodged his mouth when Nolofinwë leaned down to kiss him. The boy leaned his head back to look at him through the lashes.

“What?”

"It is heat talking," replied the elder, in a serious tone. “Tomorrow you will be ashamed of all this and you will want to forget it.”

“Don’t be an idiot. How can I want to forget what we did? Everything you made me feel? Everything you told me that I provoke in you? You said it, Curufinwë: we are made for each other.”

“One usually says many things when ...”

Nolofinwë broke free of his arms and jumped off the bed. His weakened legs gave way under his weight and Fëanáro rushed to his aid.

“Let me go!” The young ordered, crawling out of his reach. “Don't touch me again. Does one say many things when fucking? Things you really don't want to say?” He scoffed angrily. “And here I am believing you cared about me a little.”

“Nolvo ...”

“Fuck off!” He screamed and a wave of heat ran through him, making him gasp.

“Little one…”

“Don’t you dare. I don't want you to touch me again. I will find another ...” he clutched his sides, fighting the fire that devoured his insides. “Anyone will be happy to fuck the king's son ...”

“And whoever touches you will lose his hands and something else, boy”, declared Fëanáro, angry.

“ What do you care? It's just the heat ...”

“Bullshit!” The older roared, grabbing his arm to pull him to his body. “And hell that someone other than me is going to touch you. Now that I've had you, I will never let you go, little one. You are mine. We are going to be together forever…”

“You have a wife, remember?” The minor tried to mock.

“No longer. I couldn't touch her again after today. I don't want anyone else in my bed, in my arms.” He ran a hand down the boy's warm torso to rest it on his smooth belly. “We are going to have children and build a family. You and I.”

Nolofinwë raised his face to look at him with bright eyes and dilated pupils. For a few seconds they stared at each other. Then the teenager shook his head, as if waking up from a trance and muttering:

"They will never allow it."

“Who? Nerdanel will not be able to oppose and your mother cannot force you to marry, to go against your nature.”

"The Valar ... father ... If the Valar object, father will never approve ...”

"I'll take care of father," he interrupted, pressing a finger to his lips. “Now we have other things to think about.”

Fëanáro leaned down to kiss him slowly, taking pleasure in exploring his mouth with his tongue. Later, he would think about how to approach the conversation with his father; now… now the only thing that mattered was the decision he had just made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short one. 
> 
> O dearest Fëanáro, would you be able of keeping your promises?


	5. Hopes

The heat lasted almost seven Mixes of Lights. Fëanáro did not leave the rooms in which the teenager was confined at any time. On one occasion, Nolofinwë thought he heard a female voice whispering; but since he was in one of those half-unconscious trances that he fell into when the heat subsided, he wasn't sure he could identify the voice or had actually heard it.

On the seventh day, the young prince finally woke up without the urgent need for sex and knew that everything had happened. As soon as he moved, intending to free himself from the arm around his waist, Fëanáro shifted behind him and stood up to place a kiss on his shoulder.

Nolofinwë half turned to face his older brother's sleepy eyes. The crown prince looked at him through the lashes.

"Already awake, my love?" He asked in a thick voice. “Do you want me to go get something for breakfast or do you prefer a bath first?”

"A ... bath would be ... fine," the teenager agreed with effort.

Fëanáro smiled and stretched like a cat before leaving the bed. Nolofinwë immediately pulled the sheet up to cover himself. However, his eyes could not help straying to the muscular figure of his brother, appreciating with admiration bordering on adoration the bronze tone of his skin, the elasticity of his limbs, the agility with which he moved towards the bathroom. He froze, staring at the half-open door, while memories of days past came too fast and ... exciting.

Fëanáro emerged from the bathroom with his hair tied up in a low ponytail and when he saw the teenager's expression, he approached him, laughing. Kneeling beside him on the bed, he took his face to kiss him slowly on the mouth. The ypunger elf allowed himself to be done, as if he still wasn't convinced that everything was real.

A throat clear forced them to separate and Nolofinwë turned terribly pale when he discovered his mother standing in the middle of the bedroom.

"Good light, my son," said the queen calmly, completely ignoring her stepson's exquisite nudity. “Curufinwë.”

"Madam ..." Fëanáro replied, raising an eyebrow.

"I see that Arakáno feels better enough to return to his own quarters. Please, Curufinwë, would you help him take a bath and put on clean clothes? Your father wants to have breakfast with both of you.”

"Mom ..." Nolofinwë said with effort.

The queen watched him for a second and finally, she approached the bed. She reached out and stroked his face before leaning down and kissing him on the forehead.

"You'd better hurry," she suggested. “You must be hungry, my little one.”

Finwë awaited them in the family breakfast room. Only the royal family had access to that area of the palace so Nolofinwë guessed that a difficult conversation was coming. Even at his young age, the prince guessed that his father would not be happy with the course the situation took.

Same-sex relationships were a topic not mentioned in Tirion - or outside of it. Of course they existed; but ignoring them made it easy to pretend not. Coupled with that, relations between close relatives were totally prohibited by the Valar: they were even considered a sin. With what they did, the princes broke too many laws at once. Not to mention that if Fëanáro kept his promise, the true nature of Nolofinwë would be revealed.

"You could have told me that Nolvo was a Ductile," was the greeting of Míriel's son when he saw his father.

Finwë was stunned for a few seconds. Indis, who entered at that moment from a side door, glanced at the king and went to her seat.

"Your father had no intention of hiding something so important from you, Curufinwë dear," the queen pointed out, turning to her son. “Sit next to me, Arakáno. Tell me how you feel? We should see a healer.”

"I'm fine, Mom," Nolofinwë blushed. “My brother didn't ... he didn't hurt me.”

"It never occurred to me that he would, my little star," she raised an eyebrow. “But understand, dear, it is the first time that I have faced this situation. It is normal for me to be concerned.”

"Then," Fëanáro intervened, taking a seat on the other side of his brother and facing his father, "you did not know that Nolvo was a Ductile."

"It has been so long since the Great Journey and not one of them had been born among us since we arrived in Aman," the queen admitted with a sigh, still stroking the hair of her eldest son. “We thought it was the influence of the closeness of the Valar, or the Light of the Trees. It was fortunate that Lairelossë had had a brother in Cuivienen who was…”

"Now we must deal with other more important matters," Finwë interrupted. “For example, we must make sure that this is kept between us. We are confident that Lairelossë will remain silent; but you must understand, my son, that nobody should know what happened. Not even Nerdanel, do you understand?”

If he had not named his wife, Fëanáro would not have guessed that he was addressing him. When his father finished speaking, the prince raised an eyebrow and gave a lopsided smile.

"That won't be possible, father," he said, and extending a hand across the table, he interlaced his fingers with Nolofinwë's. “Everyone will know when Nolvo and I are together and have children. Didn't you think about that?”

“Chil…dren?” Finwë repeated, too stunned to say anything else.

"Children, of course. They will be beautiful kids. A girl at least. Wouldn't you like to have a daughter, Nolvo?” He asked, turning to the teenager, who barely nodded, with a shy smile. Fëanáro did not stop looking at him as he added: “I am finishing the construction in Formenos. I had included a room for Nolvo, with direct access to the library and a small study included; but now I will leave that room for Nelyo and expand mine for us to share. I am sure you will agree that it will be better for everyone if we live there.”

Silence followed his words. Indis raised her golden eyebrows and grabbing the glass of soft liquor she drank each morning, she took a long drink before commenting in a clear voice:

"You really had time to plan everything out, you two. However, Curufinwë, and although I would love to meet that granddaughter you promise me, have you thought about Nerdanel in the midst of your plans? I'm sure she will have something to say about it.”

"Nerdanel and I will part. It would not be the first time that a union is dissolved.”

"It would be the first time in Aman," Finwe finally said. “Fëanáro, I understand that your brother, while still a child and without full awareness of what is happening, harbors dreams ... wild fantasies; but you ... you are an adult. You are married ... you have children ... four sons with your wife ... You cannot be seriously considering ...”

Nolofinwë felt his heart grow cold and against his will, he began to release his hand from Fëanáro's grasp. The crown prince's fingers tightened on his, holding him back.

"I never spoke so seriously," he replied dryly. “The queen is right: I must speak to Nerdanel and explain the situation to her. If I had known before about the true nature of Nolofinwë, I would never have married Nerdanel because only the desire to have children led me to marriage. You know, father, because I never hid it from you, that I was always more attracted to males. If I had imagined that there was a possibility of fathering a son with a male... with Nolvo ... I would never have looked at Nerdanel, any female, twice.”

Finwë began to say something; but Indis stepped forward.

"I think it would be wise to wait a bit. Understand, Curufinwë, Arakáno's body may be ready to conceive; but he is still a child. If your decision is firm, there should be no problem waiting for the remaining two summers to his coming of age. That will give enough space for you to resolve your situation with Nerdanel and talk with your children. They also deserve an explanation.”

"Indis," Finwë called out, frowning.

"Your father will be leaving for Taniquetil very soon, to communicate to the Valar the current situation and ... the rare treasure that was granted to us in our first son."

Fëanáro looked at his stepmother and finally nodded. He looked at Nolofinwë again and stroked the back of the hand he still held with his thumb.

"Let's keep seeing each other. From now on, Nolvo and I are a couple. We will be discreet until he comes of age; but we will not part.”

"That possibility never occurred to me. With the arrival of heats, it is possible that they appear at least twice more between one summer and another. Your presence, Curufinwë, is the only remedy. At least the only one that seems to cause happiness to my little Arakáno.”

And so it was decided. Fëanáro refused to leave the palace and wrote a letter to Nerdanel, informing her that he would go to Formenos as soon as a matter of utmost importance allowed him to do so. That first night, Nolofinwë was surprised by his brother moving into his bedroom in the middle of the Telperion hours. Without heat, sex between them was calmer; but just as pleasurable and Nolofinwë now had the opportunity to explore the sensuality of caresses without the pressing thirst coming from his uncontrolled hormones.

Almost a month passed in that kind of unreality in which Fëanáro delayed the moment of facing the mother of his children and Nolofinwë convinced himself that his parents were as happy as he was with the outcome. Finally, a letter from Nerdanel claimed her husband for her mother's anniversary party and Fëanáro left with the promise of clarifying the whole thing during that visit to Formenos. When Laurelin lit the city the next time after Fëanáro's departure, Nolofinwë woke up unwell.

The world spun as he left the bed and when he collapsed back among the pillows, the entire dinner of the previous day came to his throat, cutting the air.

His valet brought the queen, who immediately sent for Lairelossë.

The maiden stopped by the bed and studied the prince's pale face.

"Is it the heat again?" asked the queen. “Isn't it too soon? From what I managed to find out, at least one complete season must elapse between one and the other.”

"The young prince is not in heat, my lady," the woman denied.

She was the tallest she-elf Nolofinwë had ever seen and wore her hair - an ashy blonde shade - braided with ruby-colored cords: Nolofinwë told himself that his daughter would wear his hair like that.

"But what have he got then? The absence of ... his partner?”

Lairelossë smiled almost condescendingly.

"Although it is a widely held belief among our people, I have never really witnessed that soul union that makes one member of the couple languish in the absence of the other, my lady. Instead, I think the reason for our precious prince's discomfort is much more ... natural.”

Without saying more, she leaned over Nolofinwë and stroked his face before lowering her jeweled hand and resting it on the teenager's belly. A beaming smile lit up the she-elf's lavender eyes.

"Congratulations, my lady: our precious prince is _waiting_."


	6. Awakening

**Present day**

Fingolfin woke up, breathing hard. With a jump, he sat up in bed and looked around with wide eyes. For long minutes, he didn't know what was real: the memory of a life that belonged to someone else ... or the white, bare walls that reminded him of his reincarnation, the prince he was, the king who faced Morgoth.

He left the bed, not quite sure what to do, where to go. He barely took a few steps before his knees gave out and he collapsed to the floor, his white knuckles clinging to the bedpost.

His brain spun. The world spun.

_Curufinwë_ ...

The name sounded warm and satin on his tongue, evoking memories, emotions, feelings that he had not experienced and yet could not belong to anyone else.

Two summers - two years - before his coming of age. He was almost a child; but almost an adult then… and at that time, his life had been decided. His life ... and his heart.

He had loved Fëanáro. He had loved him as… No, it was impossible to compare the peaceful, calm feeling that Anairë awoke in him with the hunger and fire that his half-brother caused.

He let go of the bedpost and sank to the ground, burying his head in his hands, panting, feeling his lungs and heart burn as memories spilled from his brain — painful, suffocating… impossible.

With his forehead resting on the cold floor, Fingolfin moved a hand and pressed his belly. Beneath the flesh hardened for years of training and scarring, he felt the truth. His body - much more than his mind - remembered. It remembered the constant tug of new life growing. It remembered the growing heat of the soul that settled and grew. It remembered the weight of the creature that carried his blood, his flesh ... and the flesh and blood of Fëanáro. His son. _Their son._

Indis, the widowed queen, had left Tirion after Finwë's death. At least, that's what the Court records affirmed. The truth was that Indis had left the city after her eldest son went into exile.

Despite the obvious physical resemblance, Indis and her youngest son did not get along totally well. From the beginning, Ingwë's niece had found that her eldest had ideas more similar to hers, as well as complementary views. True: they did not agree on everything; but at least they managed to reach negotiations. Indis would have preferred that Fingolfin remain in Tirion, ruling the Noldor: he was the one who was prepared for that fate; he was the ruler the noldor needed after the chaos. Finarfin was not a king. Finarfin never contemplated the possibility of sitting on a throne and for that reason, his reign had been little less than a farce, a failure, a surrender to the Valar. Fingolfin - Finwë Nolofinwë - would never have begun his reign on his knees.

The widowed queen had calmly taken the reincarnation of her grandchildren. Although Fingolfin's children, she had never managed to create a true connection with them: the children of her first-born had always sought more… ardent friendships. Fingon had not returned to her mother, but to await Maedhros; Turgon had returned to his wife; Aredhel had returned for her son ... Indis had resignedly waited for the return of her son, the only one who might come to her.

And Fingolfin had not disappointed her. Her son had come to see her, to try to restore a bond that had been broken long before Morgoth had killed him at Beleriand; a bond that everyone believed had been broken when Fingolfin refused to listen to Mandos; a bond she knew had been broken much longer. Each visit of Fingolfin, however, was a small pleasure and a small thorn that grew inside her.

Indis was delighted when her son's arrival was announced. She reworked the braid by which she combed her long hair and fastened it around her head like a diadem as she ordered her maid to make tea.

Fingolfin was waiting for her in the parlor that overlooked the garden. As on every occasion since his return, he dressed soberly, without jewelery, with hair like a raven's wing combed with simplicity.

"Arakáno," the queen called as soon as she entered the room.

The prince did not turn and Indis held her breath. His light blue gaze lingered on his tense shoulders, his back was too straight… and she knew.

When Fingolfin turned in front of her, slowly, the queen threw her head back slightly.

"You know," she said.

“What?” He asked, expressionless in his chiseled features.

“Arakáno…”

"What do I know, mother? What should I know? What should I remember? Why have I spent three days locked in my bedroom, not understanding what was happening to my body? Why has Estë talked about Ductiles, about male elves who can conceive? Why has Námo made fun of me? Why…? Why do I not remember the months that I carried my son - my son! - in my womb?”

The last question finally put that sparkle in Fingolfin's eyes that Indis remembered - that she loved.

"Now you remember," she said with a calm she didn't really feel.

They were silent.

Fingolfin turned his face, refusing to look at his mother. She would have wanted to talk, tell him… tell him that she had also lost.

"It was father, wasn't he?" He said after a few minutes.

"Your father ... he was afraid," sighed Indis. “He was afraid of what might have happened, of how the Valar would react. You must understand, Arakáno: no Ductile made the Great Journey ... and it was not of their own choice. There was no place for them, for their lifestyle, in the Blessed Realm. Many Ductiles took more than one partner, females and males, feeling the need to ... fill and be filled equally. That ... went against the Laws that governed this world of ... beatitude”, she concluded with irony.

"Neither Estë nor Námo seemed ... disgusted by my ... condition."

Indis took a slow, soft breath, and replied:

"Neither Námo nor Estë rule Aman, do they?"

Fingolfin made no sign of his assent. He just pouted slightly and turned to look out the window again.

"What did they do with him?" He asked quietly.

Indis dropped her shoulders with a slight exhalation.

"At least tell me that my father doesn't ... that he doesn't ..."

He dared not formulate the words.

Indis frowned. Anger swirled in her chest, like so many years ago.

"I wouldn't have allowed it," she declared fiercely.

"Really, mother?" The elf asked wearily, turning his head over his shoulder to peek at her. “You would not have allowed it ... as you did not allow him to stole him from me, to play with my mind, to erase my memories of what would have been the happiest moment of my life ... A whole year, mother. A whole year of my life! And my son ... You allowed him to steal my identity, what I was, what I could have been ... and do you want me to believe that you had prevented him from hurting my son? A creature he hated even before he was born! Oh yes, mother, all my memories have returned.”

“I know how you feel…”

“You know? You know?!” Fingolfin roared, his fists clenched. “Tell me, dear mother, how many children Finwë Noldóran stole from you!”

“My grandson!” Indis yelled, dropping the facade. “My grandson, Arakáno! My first grandson ... your son! I did love that creature ever since Lairelossë said it grew in your womb. I only had him in my arms for a moment, a few minutes… before giving up on him forever. Arakáno…” she lowered her voice, closing her eyes, recovering a calm she didn't feel. “Arakáno, you saw how much I love your children ... even if they ... if they were not always close to me. You saw how much I loved Findekáno since his birth ... do you really think that I would not have loved that child?”

Fingolfin regarded her in silence, sullenly. His distant gaze followed the path left by the tears on the queen's face and with a shrug, he turned his back on her.

"Are you going to tell me what he did with him?"

Indis breathed slowly before silently denying, defeated.


	7. Confrontation

Formenos.

Fingolfin tugged on the reins, forcing his horse to hold onto its hind legs before gently falling into the grass.

He hardly remembered the last time he was in that place. He was a boy then. He remembered running through the corridors, jumping through some window. He remembered hours spent in the workshop, in the light of the forge, watching his half-brother work, sticking his nose into his projects. He remembered being blown up when he refused to go to sleep. She remembered Fëanor wiping soot or syrup off his face. He remembered ... and now he wondered how he could have forgotten so many details, how he stopped caring about those little moments that confirmed that once there was something other than hatred between them.

It was still impossible for him to accept the magnitude of his memories. For years he had buried his childhood memories that presented Fëanor as a loving and caring brother - he had done it to survive, to keep alive the hatred that sustained him during the crossing of Helcaraxë, to try to be a better king, different from what that Finwë and Fëanor were. He had fed his decision with rage, with pain, with rejection ... and in this scheme there was no place for the elf to share his bed, to calm his body, to be much more than a brother.

Formenos.

Fingolfin had hated that fortress for far too long and was now watching it with the certainty that once there was a place for him in those rooms lit by blue lamps.

From the outside, the building looked the same as it appeared in his dark hours. Fingolfin knew that the original building had been demolished and razed by those who longed to erase the memory of the Fëanorion and their pride in Aman. Only with the reincarnation of Curufin and the return of Maglor had reconstruction begun. He had no doubt that both brothers - those who clung most to the memory of a lucid, brilliant Fëanor - had made sure to copy every detail of the past.

He pressed the sides of the steed reluctantly. No matter what memories he had recovered, he did not feel like entering his half-brother’s house; but he needed to know.

The servant who received Fingolfin took a moment to react. He was not one of the former servants of the house judging by his almost childish features, and Fingolfin stifled his contemptuous gaze as he watched him tangle with the words and his own feet as he tried to bow ... before remembering that a member of the House of Fëanor should not be too humble with the _usurper_.

"My brother," said Fingolfin, ignoring the affable tone he designated for serfdom from the start of his career as a politician. “Tell him I'm here, boy, and I have no time to waste.”

After that, he ignored the young man. He stood before the window door that led outside. He could see the stables and one of the forges. There was little movement in the yard, and Fingolfin wondered if it was too early or too late. As he remembered, Fëanor usually started to work at mid-day since with the first hour of Laurelin he used to go on a walk through the nearby forests. Many times, the morning walk turned into a multi-day excursion; but on other occasions, Telperion ascended and descended without Fëanor having left the workshop.

"I really thought the boy had gone mad."

Fingolfin turned slowly and looked at him blankly.

Two months ago, Fëanor was reincarnated. Námo had been careful to bring him back to life with all the appearance of his first glory. Reincarnated Fëanor's features lacked the obsessive toughness that twitched them in recent years. His gaze did not contain the desperate flash of madness that would fuel it in the end. He was closer to the half-brother teaching him how to ride than to the one who put a sword to his neck.

It was obvious that he had come from the workshop, Fingolfin confirmed, detailing the simple cotton and leather clothes that bare the wiry arms and taut neck. In such a short time, the fire from the forge had kissed Míriel's son's skin enough to restore it to the bronze tone that seemed too tangible in Fingolfin's memory.

"I thought you would expect my visit," Fingolfin pointed out, his voice smooth, without inflection.

"I expected you earlier. You took your time to come apologize.”

No gleam crossed Fingolfin's blue eyes. His face did not change.

The outburst of laughter caused Fëanor to furrow his arched eyebrows. Fingolfin laughed, throwing his head back, letting his unadorned hair flutter with the shudders of his shoulders. After a few seconds, the son of Indis contained the laughter and met the gaze of his half-brother.

Fëanor blinked, bewildered, realizing that the younger's eyes were still as cold as before, without a trace of humor.

“Apologize, huh? You think I've come to apologize. My memory may not be ... the best, Curufinwë; but I am sure that it was not me who abandoned his brother and burned the ships that were to go for him.”

"You stole the crown ...”

"Your son renounced the throne. And I didn't come here to argue about your damn throne and your obsession with me wanting to steal your father's love. You can keep the memory and love of your father.”

"Ah, now you also deny him. How you denied me. It is admirable how you cast off those you say you love.”

Fingolfin raised his left eyebrow slightly.

"Deny you," he repeated. “Wasn't it the other way around… brother of mine? Weren't you the one who forgot his promises and backed off in fear of losing the love of your beloved father? Remember, Curufinwë: it was you who denied me.”

"What the fuck are you talking about, fucking brat? You lied! You decided to get rid of everything that united us! You…!”

“Of what? What did I get rid of, Curufinwë?” Fingolfin roared, finally releasing anger and pain. “Say it! Say it was easier not to ask! To ignore what was before your eyes because that was what you wanted! You wanted to get rid of me! Forget the promises, the words you spoke in a moment of madness –of heat!” He let out with a sardonic laugh. “You opened your eyes, Curufinwë. You returned to your beloved and conventional wife and you understood that it was easier to get rid of the monster, of the spawn, of the aberration that nature had put in your way.”

Fëanor took a deep breath, puffing out his chest as if preparing to fight.

“How dare you?” He demanded under his breath. “How dare you come here after all and claim…?”

"How dare I?" Fingolfin repeated. “After all, you say. All? I am the one asking: how dare you pretend to be the victim after all you did? You ... You spent a lifetime accusing me of being a thief when you were the only thief! And yet, I didn't even want you to love me… I wanted it, once; but today ... millennia ago it would have been enough for you to let me be, to ignore me, to leave me without ...”

"Let you be? After what you did?”

“ I was a kid! And my only mistake was believing you! Believe your lies!”

"You were the liar! Coward! As soon as the moment of passion passed, you retracted yourself. You disowned me, what you said you felt, our ... my ...”

Fingolfin frowned.

"What delusion do you make up now, Curufinwë?"

"Don't accuse my father of your faults, Fingolfin!"

Neither Finwë's two children had noticed that their argument had long exceeded the limit of civil audibility.

Outside the room, the servants wondered if they should intervene, to prevent their prince from losing his temper and attacking the son of Indis. If such a thing happened, it was not certain that the Valar would be tolerant. Finally, when the boy who received Fingolfin was about to go looking for one of Fëanor's children, Curufin had arrived at the house.

Curufin listened to the voices and did not need the servants' words to guess who was with his father - after all, only one elf brought out the worst in Míriel's son. Listening to him and burning with anger was one. He burst into the room without preamble.

Fingolfin averted his gaze from his half-brother to the newcomer ... and the world stopped.

Curufinwë Atarinkë. So similar to Fëanor. The only one of his children who did not inherit anything from Nerdanel. _Anything_. Because it wasn't in her womb that he grew.

It was not Nerdanel's belly that held Curufin as he grew and formed his arms, and his heart developed, and his soul took hold.

Fingolfin experienced the tug on his belly. The heat ran with his blood and his hands stung, anxious, longing ...

He almost took a step toward his nephew - _his son_ \- and then he saw the twinkle in the gray eyes. He saw the rage, the hatred ... the poison that was fed in Formenos, in Beleriand, in Nargothrond ...

He turned on his heels and hastily left the room, cursing Finwë, Fëanor ... Námo for having given back memories he didn't need.


	8. A wall of lies

Fëanor froze, staring at the door his half-brother had just left. Why? Why after so many years, so much rancor, so much hypocrisy… Fingolfin returned? And claimed? Claimed what, for Eru’s sake? What could he claim? He, who had been the one ... ?!

“Father?”

Fëanor barely cocked his head at his son's call. Curufin had approached him and reached out to gently rest it on his shoulder.

"Why did Fin ... Nolofinwë come to? What were you fighting for? What did he do this time?”

What did he do this time? What a good question! Fëanor would have liked to be able to answer -to be able to answer him. His followers - his fans - prided themselves on being able to say that the Crown Prince was not capable of lying, that his half-brother had prospered in politics because he was a hypocrite and a liar while Míriel's son was like a flame: pure and transparent. Míriel's son - the only heir of Finwë - despised the lie. What would they have done to know the truth, to know that he had been lying to them all along? What would they do if they knew the true reason for the hatred, the rancor ... of the rage that for years fed in his chest against the son of Indis, against the same one that once ...

“Father?”

He looked at Curufin. Of all his children, he was the only one who kept calling him 'dad' after reaching adulthood, after all. He was the most like him. He was closest to him. He couldn't say he loved him more; but he did love him differently. Maedhros, Maglor ... even the twins! Fëanor had loved them for themselves, because they were the children he longed to have, the family he had created for himself; but Curufin ... Curufin was different because in him he loved someone that he could no longer have.

Everyone compared Curufin to him. If someone had looked in more detail, they would have seen what was hidden in plain sight: the high cheekbones, the curve of the lower lip too full, the straight and thin eyebrows, the most stylized tip of the ears, the abundant curled eyelashes that border the eyes like jewels ... all features of someone else.

_What did he do this time?_

Curufin's question was repeated in his mind. No, not this time. What had Fingolfin done so long ago that Fëanor believed that his heart would never stop bleeding? He had to know. For once, Fingolfin was going to listen as he screamed his anger and his pain.

His teeth clenched and his fists clenched at the sides of his body, he started to walk.

“Father!”

He did not respond to his son's cry. **_His son_**. Because only _he_ had loved him, only _he_ ...

He headed for the stables.

For an instant, he doubted he was seeing well. The scene surprised him. 

With no grooms nearby, in the middle of the place was a white horse and, against his side, an elf leaned.

He recognized Fingolfin's blue and silver clothes, his hair pulled over one shoulder, the curve of his firm back, his narrow hips… and once again wondered if he would ever be able to forget.

He advanced and the strangeness grew heavy in his stomach. He saw the broad shoulders shake. He saw the trembling of the hands gripping the chair. He saw the taut line on his back ... _and knew._

Fingolfin spun around, raising a hand to his side, looking for a sword he was not carrying. The reaction of a trained warrior and Fëanor found himself wondering how much more the teenager he had once loved had changed.

Finwë's eldest son's eyes followed the wet streak of tears on his pale cheeks.

“Why are you…?”

“What are you doing here?” Fingolfin snapped coldly. “What do you want?”

Fëanor felt all the anger return like a torrent of fire, of lava, of pain.

"You came here! You were the one who wanted to remove the past, to claim something to which you have no right.”

"I have no right. Am I not entitled to the truth? My truth? The truth that I only discovered by ... the indifference of the Valar?”

“What do you mean?” Fëanor frowned.

“My son. He is my son”, said Fingolfin and with his outstretched hand, he indicated in the direction of the house.

The older elf blinked, stunned for a moment.

"Did you think I got rid of him?" He asked, a new rage reverberating in his chest. “Did you think I was like you?”

"Like me," Fingolfin repeated, and his lips curved into a painful smile. “Do you really want to continue on that path, Curufinwë?”

“Why not?” He challenged him.

Fingolfin took a breath.

“Good. Let's talk about me ... brother, since you want to. Let's talk about the teenager who believed in your promises, who believed that you would protect him, who believed that you would be on his side, that you would not abandon him. Let's talk about the teenager who carried a life in his belly for a whole year, who waited for your return until the last moment, who delayed the moment they opened his belly thinking that you would arrive, with the blood escaping from his body and the pain devouring his conscience he still asked if you had arrived! Let's talk about the teenager who woke up with his memories stolen, with his empty body, with his soul ...!”

Tears streamed down Fingolfin's face and Fëanor felt his own heart twist. He had never seen him cry: in so long, even as a child, he had never seen his half-brother cry.

"Let's talk ... about the teenager who was told by his parents that he had suffered an accident, that he had been convalescing for many months, that he had received a stomach wound during a hunt. Let's talk about the teenager who looked for his older brother and found only coldness, hatred, contempt ... and could not understand.”

Fëanor suddenly understood what Fingolfin was saying. First was the anger, the helplessness for not having understood before ... but his reason opposed: it was impossible that they had lied to him like that! There was no way they could get ...!

“Is a lie. It was not so. You ... you did not want ... you said you did not want the child ... you asked that ... that they deliver him to me, that I do with him ... You ... father said ...”

“Father?” Fingolfin repeated, and his laugh was like a knife stirring in the elder's bowels. “Father, who suggested we keep it a secret. Father, who upon learning of the pregnancy asked Lairelossë if there was any way to stop it, if it was possible ... to get rid of the creature before it was too late.”

“No!” Fëanor roared. “Father never ...!”

"Never what? Remember! Erase the damn image you created of Finwë! You believed his lies above my love! You trusted him more than me! And he never would have allowed us to be together!”

"Father loved me!"

"And that's precisely why he wasn't going to allow the Valar to banish you. Manwë would not have seen your choice well and would have punished us both, banishing us. Father could lose me; but he was not willing to lose you. So he did what was necessary to ... eliminate the threat.”

Threat. Fëanor thought of Curufin when his father handed it to him: a small little thing, with too many black curls, asleep in the heat of the embroidered blankets. A threat ... He stared at his half-brother's expressionless face - blue eyes with flashes of silver, the curve of his lower lip too full, the challenging arch of his left eyebrow ... "The threat." Oh yeah! For the teenager who arched and moaned at his touch, who pleaded more and shivered astride his hips, for Nolofinwë… he would have done anything.

"Father ... he said ..." He shook his head, trying to put the ideas in order. “Father said you had decided not to go ahead with our plans. When I tried to see you, he told me that the pregnancy had weakened you, that you could barely stay awake, that ... the healers doubted that you could recover without ... without requiring Estë's intervention. Afterwards ... I had to stay in Tirion to avoid rumors: he said it was the best for everyone. Later, when I arrived at Alqualondë, and Curufin ... Father told me that you did not want him to call me. He handed me the boy and he told me ... he told me your decision.”

“My decision.”

"You had decided to agree to the directions of the healers: remove ... remove the uterus and forget ... forget everything. You were going to stay in Alqualondë until you recovered and ... and you sent me your wishes that I rebuild my bond with ... my wife. You didn't want to know about the… baby.”

Silence.

Fëanor fixed his gaze on his half-brother and waited for the outburst, the rage, the screams. They never arrived.

Fingolfin pouted and shook his head.

"They removed everything from my memory. However, they failed to erase the memories of the brother I loved. I could never understand your hatred, your contempt ... when I remembered that we were united, that ... we loved each other.”

"I couldn't ... I couldn't forgive you for what you had done. I ... I loved you.”

“Liar.”

“Nolofinwë.”

"You.Are.A.Liar!" he spat between his teeth. “If you had loved me, you would have believed in me. If you had loved me, you would not have given up. If you had loved me, you would have known that he was lying. You did not love me, Curufinwë; you never loved me: neither as a brother nor as a lover. You, like Father, betrayed me. He stole my memories and my destiny ... and you ... you stole my son. You poisoned his soul against me. You made me a monster in his eyes. The only monster here was the father you adored, it was the elf who destroyed me. With your help. If I ever dreamed of a reconciliation between us, today I just want to never see you again.”

“Nolofinwë…”

Fingolfin gave him one last hate-filled look and turning, he mounted the horse.

Fëanor thought of getting in the way, of preventing him from running away ... but the horse passed him before he managed to get his ideas in order. With no other option, he could only run to the stable gate to see his half-brother hurry away, raising clouds of dust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know: I hate Finwë. I truly do. 
> 
> And, on the other hand, I think this could become longer than I thought at first. They has so much to say yet!
> 
> Curiosity: I really dislike the omegaverse thing a bit - not to offend anyone - and that's why I never seriously showed up to write an mpreg. Although this is not exactly an omegaverse, I suppose it has points in common; but the question of the Ductiles - "their need to fill and be filled", as Indis points out - actually comes from a premise of an original story in which I work and where certain beings are born with the predisposition to be bisexual and the expression refers to both sexual pleasure and procreation in this case. And I'm done talking nonsense.
> 
> Now: How do you think Curufin will react when he knows the truth? Will he come to know the truth? What will Fingon, Turgon ... Aredhel say? Fingolfin has recovered his "original body": will he be able to conceive? Will he want to?


	9. One of us

Fingon knocked on the door and without waiting for an answer, opened and entered.

Pure courtesy, he told himself. He was just letting his father know he was going in. They had never used formalities between them and they were not going to start now. After everything had happened.

He stopped in the middle of the living room and frowned as he made out Fingolfin sitting on an easy chair at the window. With the head resting on the back, the former king had his face turned outward and seemed to be in full reverie.

“Father?” Fingon called, approaching cautiously: in the end, it wouldn't be the first time he'd surprised his father and took a punch to his eye. Or to his womb.

"Dad ..." he repeated closer.

Fingolfin's eyelids fluttered slightly and his chest rose with deep inspiration.

"Shouldn't you be with your mother today?"

Fingon raised an eyebrow and sat down on the windowsill.

"You've canceled our weekly dinner twice. Mom said you are not well and –and Grandma Indis wrote to me. I'm worried about you.”

"Mom ... My mother did not write that to you," he declared calmly, turning blue eyes towards his older son's face.

No. Fingon was not his firstborn. He understood suddenly. He had not thought of that. He hadn't thought about much since his visit to Formenos.

Fingon sensed his father's confusion and bit his lower lip.

“Something happened?” He asked. “Anything you need to talk about? Something with ... my uncle?”

"I haven't seen Finarfin in over a month ...”

"I meant my other uncle. Fëanor. Have you seen him?”

"I'm going to assume that Maedhros already told you if I had," he sighed, raising an eyebrow.

“You caught me. But Russo has no details. Curufin told him that you were in Formenos and that his father -that he seems out of his mind from that day on. Curufin wanted Russo to tell you ...”

"I don't want to hear it," he interrupted, standing up.

Fingon watched his father walk away from him and settled into his seat.

"Something really happened, huh? Was it so terrible?”

"You couldn't understand it."

“Why don’t you try it? I think you and I have been through enough things together by now. What could you say it was so ...?”

"I am a Ductile."

Fingon went silent.

His blue eyes - the same lapis lazuli shade as Fingolfin's - fixed on his father's expressionless face.

He blinked slowly as if allowing the information to reach his brain.

"A ... Ductile."

"I have a uterus and ... everything else necessary to get pregnant."

"I know what a Ductile is, Dad."

How…?” Fingolfin was puzzled.

"But you never ... never had a heat," said the youngest, standing up. “Not that I remember. Not even during the crossing of the Helcaraxë ...”

"I couldn't have it. I was ... It was removed ... removed. A healer excised my...”

Horror replaced disbelief on Fingon's beautiful face.

“No! Why…? Why would someone ...?”

"Because they didn't want it to be known -to know who... my lover was."

Fingon seemed to freeze in place.

"Feanor," he mused. “Your lover ... Fëanor was your ... partner. Grandpa ... oh Eru! It was he who made you ...”

The words stuck in his throat.

"How could he? You are his son! Your…! Fëanor did nothing?”

“ He didn’t know it. They lied to us both.”

“They…? Grandmother, ” he understood. “She… For that reason, she forced me to keep the secret.”

"Secret," Fingolfin repeated, frowning.

He studied his son, the son who was closest to him throughout his life, the son he would have expected to grow in his womb ...

"You are one of –You are like me."

Fingon bit his lower lip. He bowed his head as if embarrassed.

"Only about four people know that," he murmured. “My first heat came one season after I came of age. Grandma ... Russo came to her for help and she –she got me some medications that controlled ... suppressed heat. We kept it hidden while we were in Valinor and I kept doing it in Beleriand. Now I understand why she was so ... adamantine about not telling you anything.”

Fingolfin cursed under his breath.

"She had no right. She had no right to exclude me from something so important ... to leave me out of your life, from who you are ... You are my son! I should know ...!”

"What good would it have done you? She surely feared that you would remember, that-that-that ... that you would understand what was missing in your life! She…”

“She lied to me! And again! She obeyed the wishes of an elf who did not even know how to be a father. Indis put her husband ahead of her son. She stole from me too!”

Fingon threw his head back. He had rarely witnessed Fingolfin's anger. Rarely had Fingolfin given in to anger. Perhaps because he was missing a part of himself.

"I understand your anger," he admitted, conciliatory. “And your pain. I couldn't… I couldn't live without that part of me.”

Fingolfin looked at his son and wondered again what it would have been like if he had been born of him if Fingon had been the son fathered by Fëanor ...

"Gil is your son," he said without asking.

Fingon pressed his lips together in a fine line.

“Your determination to spend Níssimë's entire pregnancy far from the war ..." Fingolfin said again. "It was you who was waiting.”

"It wasn't something I planned," he sighed.

“Maedhros ...”

"Russo is not Gil’s father."

Fingolfin was stumped a second time that afternoon.

"Aegnor. Ereinion is the son of Aegnor. The heat came before the date and… I was hunting with Aegnor. Well, he also knows the truth; but he kept the secret like the others. Like Níssimë. Russo was furious for a time, but then, when he met Gil ... Sorry, Dad, " he exclaimed suddenly, taking a few steps in his direction with his hands outstretched. “I didn't know ... I'm so sorry I lied to you ... I ... I still don't ... I'm so sorry for all the damage they did to you, everything they stole from you.”

Fingolfin allowed Fingon to hug him. Tired, he leaned over and rested his head on his son's shoulder - _his second son._

"I had a son with Fëanáro," he confessed in a whisper.

Fingon cursed in his mind.

Suddenly, he understood the truth, and anger darkened his vision. He was going to kill Curufin.


	10. Iconoclasty

Indis was not used to receiving so many visitors in such a short time. Having withdrawn from life at court included staying out of visiting circles and even becoming for many a figure of sad ballads, of which women sang as they spun. Above all, moving away from public life included avoiding the elf who was in her living room at the time.

Indis remembered too clearly the only previous time her stepson had come to her house. It hadn't been a pleasant time for either of them, and this time it didn't seem like it would be either - much less if the reason for that visit was what she suspected.

"Fëanáro," the Dowager Queen greeted in a flat tone.

Míriel's son watched her for a second with narrowed eyes, as if he valued an opponent. Finally, Fëanor bowed his head slightly.

“Ma’am.”

Indis waited, hands clasped in front of her lap. For five long minutes they both stood, looking at each other, listening to the slow movement of the hands of the clock that in all probability was the work of Celebrimbor's learning with the dwarf craftsmen.

Indis took a short breath and broke the ice.

“I would like to say that your presence in my house is a surprise, but it’s not.”

“Is it not?” Fëanor asked, raising an eyebrow, almost sarcastically.

"Hardly two weeks have passed since Arakáno's visit. I was waiting for you before, if I'm honest with you.”

He pursed his lips, trying to hold back the words that collected in his throat like a tearing pain.

"Say it's a lie," he hissed at last hoarsely. “Say that what he said is a lie, that you did not –that father did not ...”

Indis sighed silently.

“No!” Fëanor roared, a frown contorting his handsome features. “You lie! You both lie! He lies! It's the only thing he knows how to do! What he has always done! Lies, lies, lies ... all that Nolofinwë has for me is just lies. You lie too, ” he accused, pointing a finger at his stepmother. “You are as a liar as he is.”

“Fëanáro…”

“Don’t call me that way! You are not my mother!”

"As you like," she agreed calmly.

Fëanor hissed in her direction like a caged beast and began pacing back and forth, clenching his fists on either side of his body.

"It's a lie, a lie, a lie," he repeated, shaking his head. “Father would never –he wouldn’t have -he wouldn’t... Father would not have deceived me in that way and you know it, vanyarin witch,” he concluded, stopping abruptly to look at her with eyes full of hatred.

"What I know is that Finwë made the decisions he made out of love for you."

"No," he denied firmly.

“The Valar were clear before allowing us to come to Aman: anything that went against the ‘ _natural order_ ’would have no place in the Blessed Lands and would be eradicated. I didn't experience it personally, naturally: both your mother and I were born after the Great Journey, when many things had been… _conveniently_ forgotten. But Finwë had lived long enough to guess the fate that awaited you if you rebelled against the Laws of Manwë.”

"How can you say he did it out of love for me when he knew I ...?"

"Finwë loved you more than himself. No one said that his love was wise, ” Indis shrugged. “What I can tell you is that he lived to regret his decision; but it was too late.”

“What-“

Indis smiled in a way that sent chills down Míriel's son's spine: it was the same lifeless smile from Fingolfin.

"How do you think he felt to understand what he had done? What his decision sparked between the two of you? In his eagerness to protect you, to ... keep you, he himself dug the gap between his children that only deepened more and more ... until it was as wide as the North Sea,” she almost hummed, sardonic. “I too have lived to regret supporting him, Curufinwë. In the end, my son ran after you to hell itself and now -Now that he has come back to me, Arakáno will never forgive me for what his father and I stole from him.”

Fëanor remained motionless. Along with anger, life itself seemed to have been drained from his veins and his unfocused eyes wandered around the room.

"He-he said ... he said that I ... that if I had really loved him, I would have ...”

The widowed queen blinked, surprised by his helpless babble. For the first time in long millennia, her heart filled with tenderness for Míriel's son.

“Oh Curufinwë!” She said, extending her hands in his direction and clasping them against her breast again. “You two were so young! You didn't even have a chance to see if what you felt was really lovers' love or… or a delicious confusion of feelings. We didn't give you a chance to find out or -I'm really sorry. For the two of you. And for me. Maybe if you ... if you had had at least that son joining you both, so much could have been avoided. At least I am sure that Arakáno would have been much happier if ...”

"It was so easy for father to convince me," muttered Fëanor, half horrified. “So easy! Not for a second did I doubt his word.”

"Why should you, boy?" She was impatient. “He was your father! The person who loved you the most! Who you always trusted. And believe me, he really thought about protecting you, about your happiness when...”

"He allowed me to hate Nolofinwë! He knew why he hated him until Iwanted to rip his soul out! _Until I want to rip my soul out_! And he was silent while I poured my anger into Nolvo, while I ... poisoned our son against ...”

Indis felt his breath catch in her throat before bursting into a scream.

“Your son? Did you keep him?” she screeched.

Fëanor blinked, stunned. His brown skin paled at the understanding.

"He ... didn’t tell you.”

The queen put a hand to her mouth.

"I-I-I ..." she stammered as tears accumulated in her blue eyes. “For years, I looked ... at children ... on the street. I was looking ... I was looking for a similarity with-with Arakáno ... with you ... I was wondering ... He-he-he said that ... that you had found a family ... that ... there would be no questions or ...”

"It's Curufinwë," Fëanor confessed without preamble, hardening his tone. “Curufinwë is ... your grandson. Nolvo's son. And mine.”

"B-but ... Nerdanel ... she ...”

"We lied. When we got back from that trip, we lied. Curufinwë was then three years old, not two as we said.”

Indis backed away, stunned, until she tripped over the easy chair. She sat down and staring blankly, she murmured:

“Curufinwë. My grandson ... so close ... How could I not have realized ...?”

"I suppose sometimes we see only what we want to see," sighed Fëanor, pain seeping into his words like cast iron.

He watched his stepmother for a few more seconds and finally bowed before leaving the room.

Indis did not move, while the tears ran silently down her cheeks.

Fëanor arrived home in a surprisingly serene state of mind for someone who had just seen the image of the most beloved person in his entire life crumble. He left the mare free to graze comfortably on the property and headed for the forge. As he supposed, he found his son there, working alone.

Curufin looked up as his father entered and smiled, stopping the movement with which he operated the bellows to stoke the fire.

"Dad," he said, running a hand through his hair to accommodate the stray strands that fell in front of his eyes.

Fëanor clenched his teeth at the familiarity of the gesture - memories of a blue-eyed teenager in his forge burned a path of doom in his guts.

"Curvo, my son ... my treasure, we have to talk."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I have to admit that this story is probably going to extend a little more than planned; but I don't want to go ahead.
> 
> In case I decide to conclude only the 12 chapters planned so far, perhaps you will return to this universe sometime.
> 
> And just so you know, Indis continues to use Quenya names because she never left Aman and has a hard time letting go of old customs. Yes, Anairë and Nerdanel did quickly adjust to the use of Sindarin.


	11. To build a bridge

Fingon leaned out the window and breathed in, filling his lungs with the morning air. The night before, he had asked Maedhros for a few days to be with his father. Fingolfin needed him. He didn't even have to say it: he could read his father as if it were his own heart where he looked. And yet, the day before, after lunch, Fingolfin had asked him to stay.

  
  


Fingon remembered all the times when he preferred to run after his cousins than to stay in his father's house. He remembered all those times he got into trouble with Caranthir and Curufin without knowing that one of them must have grown up in his house, under the same roof ... being his older brother.

  
  


He leaned against the windowsill, leaning forward. Again he wondered how different it would have been if instead of being born to Anairë, he had been born to his father.

Son of Fëanor.

The idea fluttered in his mind. He must have been the son of Fëanor as well. Had things gone the way the young princes decided, they would all have been sons of Fëanor. Fingolfin had admitted it the day he finally told him everything.

Son of Fëanor. Brother of Maedhros.

How different would everything have been if Finwë had not intervened? If Fëanor and Fingolfin had followed through with their plans to create a family?

He blinked several times, banishing the thoughts, and his gaze fell on the approaching figure riding across the field. Fingon narrowed his eyes to get a better look at the rider, and a curse rose from his lips.

  
  


……………………………

  
  
  


Curufin restrained his steed before the house. He jumped off his feet and headed for the steps that led up to the porch.

He hadn't set foot on the first step when the door opened and closed again, shutting out an elf.

"Get out of here," Fingon roared, squaring himself between the door and Curufin with his arms crossed over his chest.

Fëanor's son frowned.

“Fingon …”

“Out! You have no right to come to my house with your shit. Out, Curufinwë,” he roared in Quenya.

“I will not.”

Curufin pursed his lips and ascended a step.

"I'm not going to leave without seeing… your father."

Fingon showed him his fangs like a raging wolf.

"You don't deserve to talk to him. I won't let you make his life more difficult. I won't let you come to finish what your idiot father started.”

"Don't talk about my father," demanded the blacksmith, climbing another step.

“No…? Curufin, your father is an idiot who lost the only person who was worth his salt and who would have endured his bullshit. And you ... you are just the extension of his worst flaws.” He scanned him with a mocking look. “I don't even know what you got from  **my father.** ”

"Fuck off, Findekáno," he growled, reaching the porch at last. “I came to speak with Fingolfin and I will not leave here without …”

"Take one more step and I’ll send you back to Formenos with a broken face."

"Enough, Fingon."

Engaged in their confrontation, neither of them noticed that Fingolfin had opened the door and was watching them from the threshold.

“Dad…”

"I said that is enough, my son. You will not fight your…  _ cousin _ , ”he declared. “Go inside and make sure your sister and Maeglin are still resting. Curufin and I -Curufin and I have to talk.”

Fingon seemed to hesitate still, looking from his father’s face to his cousin, who kept his eyes downcast. Finally, he leaned over so that Curufin could hear him.

"If you hurt him ... if you say a word that hurts him ... I'm going to take your heart out, Curufinwë," he promised in Quenya before turning on his heels and heading back inside the house.

  
  
  


Curufin found himself alone before the elf that he always believed to be  _ his uncle _ , the elf he had learned to hate because of how much his father suffered when he spoke of him.

He didn't move, just looking up to study Fingolfin's face. It was still just as beautiful as he remembered it from before the Dagor Bragollach. And yet he could see the signs of fatigue around the blue eyes, at the curve of the corners of the lips. With his hair loose to his shoulders, Fingolfin looked a little younger than before he died in Beleriand.

Curufin watched him more closely. He had always considered his uncle beautiful - more beautiful than Finarfin with his delicate appearance and affable manner. There was a time when he was attracted to Fingolfin, as if something in him called him, pulled his soul. He had thought it was a teenage infatuation and had been disgusted to even suppose such feelings existed in his heart. It was still impossible for him to accept how wrong he was. He still had a hard time believing what his father had told him the day before.

  
  


"Curufin," Fingolfin said after a moment, softly.

The youngest came out of his trance.

“Is it true?” he demanded. “Is it true that I… that I am…?”

Fingolfin half smiled bitterly.

"Too bad you can't even say it. But it's true. You are my son, Curufin.”

The air caught in the smith's throat, turning into a ball that scratched and burned.

“Why…? Why not…?”

Fingolfin watched him as he stopped smiling.

"Didn't Fëanor tell you everything?"

Curufin nodded, closing his eyes. He raised his eyelids again and looked at his uncle  _ \- his father. _

"Didn't you love me?"

Indis's son was stunned by the question.

“What have you said?”

"I asked if you didn't love me. Because… because you didn't… you didn't look for me… you never recognized me. You didn't know that I… How could you completely forget me? Was it because you didn't love me?”

Fingolfin blinked several times, feeling the sting in his eyes. Too sensitive. He had become too sensitive, for Eru.

"They ... your grandfather took ... all my memories. Along with… with my uterus and… They left nothing for me to remember you… to remember what happened with… Fëanor. I knew… I felt that something was missing in me, that I was incomplete; but I didn't… didn't know what to look for. And… and I generally felt that way when… when I was around your father, so I… I thought it was because of… because of his contempt, because he didn't… didn't value me. Like a brother. As a person. I ... I resented you. When Fëanor came back to you little one, that's when he… he stopped… loving me and I… blamed you then. I did not know ... I thought that what called me in you was your resemblance ... with him. With my brother. I couldn't… I couldn't look for you if I didn't know I had lost you, Curufinwë.”

Curufin had gone very still, listening to him babble. He shook his head and opened his mouth to say something; but he closed it again. Only on the third try did he say:

“And now? Do you want to… find me now?”

"I went to your house looking for you. I went to demand that Fëanor tell me what had become of you. I'm ... I'm willing to do anything to ... find you.”

Curufin felt an unexpected slack in his knees.

He hadn't counted on this. He wanted the truth. He wanted to hear Fingolfin confirm the unreal story that Fëanor told him. He wanted to confirm that his life had been a lie from start to finish. But he hadn't counted on it hurting so much and so deep. He hadn't counted on the desire to collapse on the ground, crying and waiting for his father —  _ his father _ — to pick him up and cradle him, as he should have been able to when he was a baby.

"I… I came here," he muttered in a strangled voice. “You don't have… you don't have to find me. Is it okay if ... if we go little by little?”

Fingolfin let out the breath he had unconsciously held and nodded silently, ignoring the tears that were running down his cheeks.

"I'm sorry," he apologized with an effort. “My body… my body produces too many hormones now.”

Curufin gave a short, nervous laugh and stared at him, with more attention than he'd ever given him.

"I have… I have your cheeks," he said at last.

Fingolfin looked at him and half smiled.

“You do. Shall we go in for a bit? I haven't had breakfast yet.”

“Me neither.”

Indis's son nodded and stepped aside to signal him to enter the house.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, this story presents a concept similar to that of the A / B / O universes as well as the concept of the maidens (donceles in Spanish); but I won't use any of those definitions during the story because I'm this whimsical and I don't like to talk about Alphas and Omegas when I write about elves.
> 
> It is also my first time writing Mpreg, so please be patient with me.


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